Part 72 (1/2)

But when they look round for her they find t.i.ta has disappeared.

CHAPTER XIV.

HOW t.i.tA FLINGS HERSELF UPON MARGARET'S BREAST; AND HOW MARGARET COMFORTS HER; AND HOW t.i.tA PROMISES TO BE GOOD; AND HOW SHE HAS A MEETING ”BY LAMPLIGHT ALONE.”

It is now eleven o'clock. Margaret, who is in her own room, and has sent her maid to bed, is sitting over her fire dreaming of many things, when her door is suddenly opened and as suddenly closed, and, just as suddenly as all the rest of it, a little fragile thing runs towards her, and flings herself in a perfectly tragic fas.h.i.+on upon her breast, lying there p.r.o.ne--lost, apparently, in an unappeasable outburst of grief.

”t.i.ta, my child, my darling! What has happened?” exclaims Margaret, pressing the girl to her. _”Do_ look up, my dear, and tell me. There is nothing new, surely, t.i.ta.”

”Oh, I'm tired--I'm tired of it all!” cries t.i.ta wildly. ”I want to be done with it. Oh, Margaret, I've said nothing, nothing! _Have_ I, now?” appealing to her with great drenched eyes. ”But I can go on no longer. He hates me.”

”Oh, hush, hush, t.i.ta!”

”He does! He was unkind to me all to-day. He is always unkind to me.

He _hates_ me, and he--loves her.”

”I don't think so. I don't, really. Sit down, darling,” says Margaret, in great agitation.

”I know he does. Did you see that he would hardly speak to me this evening, and----”

”I thought it was you who would not speak to him.”

”Oh no, no! I was longing to speak to him. I can't bear being bad friends with _anyone;_ but, of course, I could not go up to him, and tell him so; and he--what did _he_ do?--he spent the whole evening with Mrs. Bethune in the conservatory.”

”t.i.ta, I a.s.sure you he was not alone with her then. Mrs.

Chichester----”

”I don't care about his being alone with her,” says t.i.ta, whose mind is as fresh as her face. ”He was _with_ her all the evening; you know he was. Oh, how I hate that woman!”

”t.i.ta, listen----”

”Yes; I hate her. And----” She stops and lays her hands on Margaret's arm and looks piteously at her. ”Do you know,” says she, ”I used _not_ to hate people. I thought once I hated my uncle, but I didn't know. It was nothing like this. It is dreadful to feel like this.”

There is poignant anguish in the young voice. It goes to Margaret's heart.

”t.i.ta, be sensible,” says she sharply. ”Do you think all the misery of the world is yours?”

”No, no,” faintly. ”Only _my_ portion is so heavy.”

She bursts into tears.

”Good heavens!” says Margaret distractedly, caressing her and soothing her. ”What a world it is! Why, _why_ cannot you and Maurice see how delightful you both are? It is an enigma. No one can solve it. t.i.ta darling, take heart. Why--why, if Marian were so bad as you think her--which I pray G.o.d she isn't--still, think how far you can surpa.s.s her in youth, in charm, in beauty.”

”Beauty!”

The girl looks up at Margaret as if too astonished to say more.

_”Certainly_ in beauty,” firmly. ”Marian in her best days was never as lovely as you are. Never!”